


just 'cause i'm shallow doesn't mean that i'm heartless

by jockohomo



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drinking, First Meetings, Gay Male Character, M/M, Pre-Canon, Taverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Caderousse, during one of his routine nights out, takes interest in a newcomer.
Relationships: Gaspard Caderousse/Baron Danglars
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	just 'cause i'm shallow doesn't mean that i'm heartless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empathy_junkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empathy_junkie/gifts).



> this was originally a birthday present, then a holiday present, and now it's too late to really be either. still, here it is!
> 
> content warning for light alcohol use.

As usual, Caderousse found himself existing in a sort of twilight world—not quite sober but certainly not quite drunk, either. He practiced moderation more often than not because he had nothing in particular to run from, but he enjoyed the buzz in his fingers, the pleasant swaying of the room, the din of his rowdier company. Not that he wasn’t maybe a bit rowdy himself, but that was just a part of him, as sure as his drooping eyelids and his toothy, lopsided grin and his ruffled hair. It worked in tandem with his own body; it did not require additional substances. 

At some point the tavern had had a real name, and then its regulars had noticed the way a piece of the doorframe hooked out haphazardly (they had noticed it because it was exactly head-level and drunks were hardly well-coordinated). After that, it was all over; the establishment was christened “The Shepherd,” at least by anyone who spent any real amount of time there. Even after the offending bit of wood had been fixed, the name stuck; Caderousse had been told its origin more times than he cared to count, but the working men had stopped telling it to him around the time they accepted him as a regular. As one of them.

But Caderousse wasn’t quite like them, he knew that much. There were ways to spot people who he _was_ like, and he picked up on them, more often than not; certain words used in odd ways, certain gestures that most men wouldn’t recognize as anything _meaningful_. It was purposeful above all else, and Caderousse picked up on it out of habit, not because he was particularly observant—which he was not. It was a lucky thing, he imagined, that he never strayed far from Marseille; it seemed like such a bother to learn a whole new language, and this entire manner of communication was a local thing. Who knew what its substitute was in Nimes or Toulouse or Paris? Marseille’s flags were comfortable.

The boy sitting in the corner of the tavern was flying none of those flags. To call him a _boy_ was incorrect, really; he seemed no younger than Caderousse himself, but it still felt natural to refer to him that way, what with the anxious, insecure way he was sitting, pulled away from the other patrons yet still watching them with a sort of self-deprecating wonder. No, he was flying none of the flags Caderousse usually looked for, but there was something about him that felt alien, and that was familiar. For a moment, their eyes locked.

Of course Caderousse made his way to that corner of the tavern. He was curious, so he had to. 

The stranger’s eyes lifted up to him as he approached; it was difficult to tell their color in the dim glow of the lamps, but they seemed light. His nose was short and wide, his lips pursed in that singular way that signaled how rarely they smiled, his cheeks puffed out in grotesque contrast to the slenderness of the rest of his face, all of it framed by a short cut of dense black hair. It had been a while since Caderousse had been glowered at.

“What do you want?”

Caderousse gave him that same wide grin that he sported so often and slid into the next seat over. “Are you new around here?”

“No,” the stranger said, scowling. He turned the back of his head to Caderousse.

“Are you sure?” he asked to the forest of dark curls. “I know everyone here, and I know that I have never seen you before.”

“Perhaps you were too blind to notice me.”

“What a rude thing to say!” Caderousse’s grin widened—after all, he _knew_ that he wasn’t blind. “In the richer classes, you might be made to duel for a comment like that.”

“And what would you know about the richer classes?”

Caderousse was almost taken aback by the bitterness in the stranger’s voice. On another glance, his unfamiliar face wasn’t the only difference between this man and the other residents. Caderousse was a tailor and had seen many manners of dress during his recently-ended apprenticeship, and what he was seeing before him was the clothing of a farmer, barely disguised by the threadbare coat pulled over it. After a pause, he said, “Not much, I admit. Why? Do you disagree?”

The stranger (the farm boy, Caderousse called him internally) turned his head just enough to give Caderousse a cursory glance. His eyes narrowed. “I will ask you again. What do you want?”

“I like to talk. Is that a crime?”

“Just an annoyance,” the farm boy said with another scowl, but he moved back to face his drink, apparently no longer finding his company to be worth avoiding. 

“My name is Gaspard,” Caderousse said after it became clear that the burden of the conversation was his. He offered his hand to shake.

The farm boy looked at it, then back up at Caderousse’s grinning face. “Danglars.”

“Danglars?” Caderousse asked, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, that makes me all the more sure you come from another town. No one in Marseille is named Danglars.”

“What does it matter?” muttered this Danglars fellow. 

“What does it matter? Well, I suppose it only matters if you intend to stay in Marseille.”

Danglars stared into his drink. 

“And? Do you?”

“That is yet to be seen,” Danglars said, and brought his glass to his lips. A look of disgust immediately overtook his face and he covered his mouth with a hand.

Caderousse stifled his laughter and instead gave a quiet hum, resting his chin in his hand. 

Danglars’ face went red and he crossed his arms over his chest. “It isn’t to my taste, that’s all.”

“Then why order it?” asked Caderousse, who was only growing more fond of this misplaced young farmer. There was something irresistibly amusing about him. He had already formed his theory: Danglars had only rarely drank alcohol before, chose to indulge in it tonight so as to not feel weaker than the rest of the patrons, and would of course refuse to admit to either of those things.

“I would offer it to you, but I hate to waste money,” Danglars replied—although, Caderousse noticed, it really wasn’t an answer.

“And that,” he agreed, “is where we are similar. You should never pay a man who hasn’t worked for you, not without assurance that he’ll pay you back. In fact, I would buy you something more to your liking, but I doubt you’d compensate me, and you aren’t talkative enough to make up for it.”

Danglars narrowed his eyes. “You’re too friendly.”

“If you think that to be my greatest fault, then I’m flattered, my good man.” Caderousse sipped his own drink, which he had brought with him out of determination to root himself down to his interest’s side. “Perhaps I just like you, eh?”

“As if you know _who I am_ ,” Danglars muttered with a huff, but his blush had spread to his ears.

“I know enough to know that you amuse me. And besides, I _want_ to know who you are, if you’ll allow me the pleasure.”

Danglars stared at him, bemused, and then said, “You baffle me.”

“How kind of you.”

“Not everything is a compliment, you…” Danglars trailed off, biting his lip. Again he looked Caderousse over, but this time more slowly, with more consideration. It was more analytical than he would have expected. “What do you do for a living? Don’t tell me you spend all your time in sordid places like this.”

“If this place seems sordid to you, you must be more sheltered than I thought,” Caderousse commented, although he truthfully had expected as much. Before Danglars had the chance to respond, he added, “I’m a tailor.”

“A tailor,” Danglars repeated thoughtfully. “Well, there are less profitable jobs to have, I suppose…” 

“What?” 

“Hm?” He blinked. “I was talking to myself. Pay it no mind.”

Caderousse hummed, deciding to follow Danglars’ instructions and not dwell on it. He pressed on. “Now, Danglars, where are you from?”

“I’ll tell you again that it doesn’t matter,” he muttered, scowling. Caderousse was beginning to realize how accustomed his face seemed to be to it; perhaps that was its natural state. “Some village north of here, if one could even call it a village. It was nothing. I left for good reason.”

“And why did you leave?”

“Because,” Danglars repeated, agitated, “it was _nothing_. You may not be able to tell it by looking at me, Gaspard, but I am a man of aspirations. It was miserable, living in that little…” 

He evidently thought he had said too much, because he snapped his mouth shut and furrowed his thin eyebrows.

“Living in that little what?” Caderousse asked, leaning towards him.

Danglars looked away. “Never mind. My point is that I was unfortunate to have been born in that place. Every person to be found there was pathetic in their poverty, and yet they remained, as if they were satisfied with such lives. As if anyone in their right mind could ever be happy like that. Luckily, I tell you, I am in my right mind, and that is why I am here.”

“Why Marseille? Do you know anyone?”

“No. I chose Marseille because… it was closest.” Danglars’ eyes flashed like a trapped animal’s. “Why do you keep interrogating me? You are ridiculous.”

“That may be true, but no matter. Allow me to arrange your story for the both of us,” Caderousse said, shifting his legs and raising his hands to gesture as he spoke. “You, Danglars, come from a poor rural village, yes? Clearly from a poor family. Frustrated with your prospects, you ran away to the nearest city—with what money? You must not have much left, after traveling all this way. And so you arrived in Marseille, with some meager possessions and coin to your name, with no friends or contacts to call on, convinced that you would somehow turn a profit from this deficit. Is that right?”

Danglars remained silent; his expression was deepening into a glower.

“Just as I thought.” Caderousse clicked his tongue regretfully. “You poor, lost thing. What do you expect to find here? Do you suppose you could easily find work as a clerk, or perhaps a lawyer? You will find a job as a hired hand somewhere, perhaps, doing hard labor, and it will make you rugged and muscled and likely quite handsome but it will certainly not give you whatever riches you came here looking for. You would be just as well off returning to your family.”

As he spoke, Danglars sank further and further down until his chin was resting on his arms, which in turn rested folded over each other against the surface of the bar. His jaw was set; clearly, he was trying his best not to look discouraged. After a moment, he said, “No matter what you say, I refuse to go back there. I was made for better things.”

But he fell silent after that and made no attempt to rise. He eyed his glass contemplatively but made no move to drink from it.

Caderousse paused. He felt bad for this lost farm boy—so far from home, so utterly without prospects, yet so entirely sure of his own purpose. The purpose to make money—and was he even literate? It seemed like such a waste of effort, and there was something sad about that; he had come all this way, after all, and he looked so miserable, leaning down against the bar with his dirty clothes and his tousled hair and his frustrated pout. But he was cute, and he was charming, in all his half-hearted attempts to close himself off, and Caderousse imagined he’d be far more charming if he had a place to stay and food to eat and someone to rely on. He wondered if Danglars had ever been kissed before—if he had any options out there, in those sparse populations that tended to the farmland.

Fortunately, Caderousse had an idea.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, leaning over to pat Danglars on the shoulder. “Don’t look so dejected! All is not lost.”

“—not dejected,” he heard Danglars mutter into his arms. Their eyes met; from this proximity, Caderousse could tell that they were gray. “You annoy me.”

“Well, how unfortunate! And I was about to give you an offer.” Caderousse shook his head, laughing. “Luckily for you, I’m not so easily deterred.”

A light flicked on in Danglars’ eyes and he raised his head, giving Caderousse a look. There was suspicion there, yes, but also a sort of hunger that he didn’t see often. “You were?”

“I was and I am,” Caderousse announced, patting him again. “I could use a bit of help—I have a lot of customers, you see, and there is only one of me. My apartment is certainly not large, but it could fit another, and if we are able to accomplish more work than I can alone, we will be able to feed ourselves well enough. I may not be rich, but I know plenty of individuals in various lines of work who could surely employ you before too long.”

Suddenly, Danglars was sitting straight in his seat. There was still that suspicious look to him, but it had clearly been outweighed; he licked his lips. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as a stab in the gut.”

“And what of payment?”

“You,” Caderousse said, leaning dangerously close to Danglars’ face, “can be a bit more pleasant to speak to.”

Danglars flushed violently. “You are _ridiculous_. I refuse to believe you would offer me this for free.”

“What can I say, my friend?” he replied with a shrug. “I couldn’t simply send you back off to the countryside, could I? No, I will take my payment once you land yourself a nice, well-paying job and have money to spare. And, of course, I expect you to work as hard as I do in the meantime.”

“Of course,” Danglars said with a scoff.

“Then the thing is decided!” Caderousse exclaimed, clapping his hands together and clasping them lightly. “In the meantime, we drink to your future.”

They toasted—Caderousse with vigor and Danglars with embarrassment. 

After taking an almost imperceptibly small sip of his drink, Danglars said, “We can get out of here, then?”

“So soon?” Caderousse asked, wiping his upper lip of alcohol.

“I don’t like this place,” he replied bluntly. 

“Well, then, we have a problem!” Caderousse shook his head with a sharp-toothed grin. “We’ve barely started our partnership and you’ve already decided to quarrel with me.”

Danglars pouted into his drink without really touching it.

“Oh, my good man, that was a joke. To force you to stay here against your will—why, I dare not imagine it.” Caderousse stood and slid the money he owed onto the bar. “But you cannot find your way home without me, can you? So it goes.”

Mumbling something indecipherable, Danglars followed his lead. 

“Besides,” Caderousse added, “I would hate to make such a handsome man upset.”

Danglars, evidently believing he was being made fun of, glowered at him for what felt like the millionth time that evening. But, of course, Caderousse was not joking.

As they walked out of the Shepherd and into the cool night air, the whole peculiar event became finalized: Caderousse had made what might have been the worst decision of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> writing these two pre-canon is hard bc their attitudes and circumstances are so different from any point in the book, but i still had fun! the title is taken from the song drunk girls by lcd soundsystem.
> 
> https://gaspardcaderousse.tumblr.com/


End file.
